


Shadows On the Floor

by Tonica



Category: The Raven (2012)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:22:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tonica/pseuds/Tonica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Edgar Allan Poe is sick and being cared for by a doctor. He finds himself caring about this doctor in his turn and one day he tells him a story. After that, his memory returns and Poe flees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows On the Floor

He came awake slowly, at first unaware of his surroundings. After a time, long or short, he wasn't sure, he realized he was in his home, or at least the place where he was staying at the moment. He felt sick, but it was a familiar sickness – just the usual after a period of drinking. His head was heavy and he was slightly dizzy.

The sound of footsteps from the next room made him look up. Who would be here? He didn't have a family anymore, no friends who would be staying. The young, or relatively young man, who approached the bed looked vaguely familiar, but Poe couldn't place him.

”Mr Poe? I'm glad to see you awake. Are you feeling any better?”

”Excuse me? Who are you? What are you doing here?”

”You don't remember? I'm a doctor. Dr -”

”A doctor? Why?”

”You have been very sick.”

”Oh. But – who's paying for your services, doctor? I'm sure I don't have any cash to speak of.”

”Never mind that. It's an honor for me to care for you.”

Poe considered this for a moment. Occasionally, he met men who wanted to buy him drinks, to be able to tell their friends he had had a drink with the famous or infamous Edgar Allan Poe. Once in a while, but to his taste, far too rarely, a woman might try to pick him up, to be able to tell herself, hardly anyone else, that she had once had a close relation with the renowned author. Even if the women were usually older, most of them widows, he had learned not to scorn such offers. At this time in his life, who else would have him? So, why shouldn't a doctor who admired his writing wish to provide his professional services for free? The man looked serious. Not one of those lunatics who wanted to touch him or cut a lock of his hair when he wasn't looking or – even stranger things that Poe knew no one would believe if he told them.

”I see. Thank you, doctor. I appreciate your help.”

He tried to get up but his head was spinning and he fell back onto his pillow. The doctor gently put his hands on his shoulders and held him down.

”Don't try to get up. You're not well enough yet. If you need anything, I will -”

”I should get back to work. The newspaper -”

”If you want me to bring you writing material -”

Poe considered. No. He couldn't think of anything to write. Deep down, he feared he might have lost his gift. That no longer would the beautiful, wonderful words flow from his pen. There had been a time when drinking had helped. When the effects of alcohol had stimulated his imagination. No more. These days, nothing much helped and alcohol less than anything else. It must have been close to a year since he last wrote anything of consequence and even what little he had managed to get down on paper was far from his best work.

”No, thank you. I – maybe later.”

The doctor nodded pensively. He sat down on the edge of the bed and began to examine his patient. It made Poe uncomfortable, though why he should feel that way, he wasn't sure. He had been sick so many times in his life. Been under the care of doctors and nurses and in his childhood, his mother and foster mother. None of this was new. This doctor was gentle and skillful, or so it seemed. The examination was over almost as soon as it had begun. Yet something of the man's touch lingered on Poe's skin, contributing to the sense of unease. There was nothing about the man's demeanor that spoke of anything unhealthy in his interest in his patient. Just professional care.

”Are you hungry?”

Poe considered. He was thirsty, as usual. His throat was parched and his lips dry and cracked, which wasn't unusual after a bout of drinking. Hungry? Not that much, but he knew his dizziness could be caused by hunger.

”Not really.”

”You should try to eat something. Your housekeeper was here with some soup a while ago. I'll get it for you.”

Before Poe had time to stop the doctor, he was gone into the other room. He thought the girl would be flattered to be referred to as 'housekeeper'. She was just a servant girl, poor enough to work for a dirt poor drunkard, who used to be one of America's greatest authors.

The doctor returned with the soup, that oddly enough was still quite warm, if not exactly hot. Poe was able to sit up, with the help of the doctor and took the spoon from him before he would be forced to accept help, like a child. He might be in declining health, but he was not yet at the stage where he needed help to feed himself.

As he ate, he found that he was a little bit more hungry than he had expected, but he soon tired of the soup and pushed it away. How long had it been since he had last eaten? Days?

”That's enough. Thank you. Can I have a drink?”

The doctor studied him thoughtfully, then nodded. He took the bowl and spoon away and returned with a glass. Even from a distance, Poe could tell it was just water. Water? Well, at least it wasn't milk. He sipped from the glass but was so thirsty he ended up finishing it all. At least it was fresh, cold water. It tasted better than he had expected.

”If you feel up to it, we should try to get you cleaned up and change the linens.”

Again, Poe tried to get out of bed, but fell back onto the pillows. Too weak. Was he more sick than he had thought? Had another bout of the cholera hit Baltimore?

”What's wrong with me? Any contagion?”

The doctor considered his words, causing Poe to wonder what might be wrong with him. Consumption? If it was, it had only been a matter of time. Hadn't almost everyone he loved succumbed to the same condition? It would be strange if he didn't in the end get it too.

”Nothing like that. You're just – the drinking is taking its toll.”

So it was just the same old sickness, only taken to new heights. Well, that was inevitable too. He had always known it would end like this. If it was the end. He had been hoping he might write something more. Something great.

”I see.”

He didn't like the idea of anyone else cleaning and undressing him, but he knew it was pointless arguing with a doctor. In the past he had on occasion almost ended up in physical struggles – and quite enjoyable ones at that – with some of his nurses. Not that it had helped. He had ended up well and truly bathed anyway, so he might as well give in with some dignity intact.

As it turned out, the doctor was as skillful as a nurse. He quickly and smoothly stripped his patient of his clothing, then proceeded to just as easily wipe him clean with some torn up sheets dipped in warm water that he had brought from the other room and presumably the fireplace. The whole thing was over in a trice and Poe found himself deposited in a sturdy chair next to the bed. Before long he was dressed again, and watched the doctor turning over his bed, removing the old linens and having somehow found the spare set, made the bed over again. In less than fifteen minutes Poe was back under the covers, feeling slightly refreshed and none the worse for wear. He had to hand it to this man, he was good.

The doctor disappeared into the other room and returned without the basin and other cleaning materials. He sat down in the chair that Poe had just vacated.

”There. Feeling better?”

”Yes, thank you, doctor. I'll be fine now. You can – go about your business.”

”I don't have any urgent work to do today. I'll be leaving in the evening and returning in the morning.”

Poe nodded. It seemed odd that even a physician might be able to control his working hours like that, but perhaps this man was a newcomer to Baltimore or – he lost the train of thought, feeling his eyelids begin to droop. He was still tired.

The doctor appeared to notice.

”If you're tired, try to get some more sleep. It can only do you good.”

”I don't mind if I do, doctor.”

But deep down he wanted to get back to work. Not lie here like an old man in his dotage. Surely it was too early for that? Didn't he have at least a few more good years left?

A few minutes later he must have dozed off, because he remembered nothing else until late in the evening. The doctor was gone and he was on his own. He was still tired, but found a pitcher of water on his bedside table and was able to have another drink before once again falling asleep.

When he woke up – at what hour he wasn't sure – the doctor was back and seemingly absorbed by a book. The book looked familiar and sure enough, it turned out to be a copy of one of his older works. His own copy, from his own bookshelf. The doctor looked up and put the book away.

”I hope you don't mind. I just thought I'd -”

”No, I don't mind. So you're interested in my work?”

The doctor smiled, the smile transforming his face, making him look younger. Poe estimated that in reality the man was in his early thirties.

”Oh, yes. I have followed your work from a young age.”

”Really? I'm pleased to hear it. And which is your favorite?”

”I couldn't just choose one – it's all brilliant. Beautiful.”

Poe couldn't help smiling himself. It was always gratifying to meet an admirer. Indeed he had surmised that much when he learned that the doctor was offering his services for free. An admirer.

”If you have a copy of your own – or a piece of paper – anything – no, never mind. Go get that book, the one that's lying down at the edge of the shelf. I'll sign it for you if you like. You can keep it. It's a copy of The Fall of the House of Usher. Did you enjoy that?”

”Of course I did. I loved it. But are you sure? Do you really want to part with it?”

”I have others. It's always gratifying to meet an admirer. What's your name, doctor?”

”Dr Fields. Elijah Fields.”

”Oh, and would you get me a pen too? There should be one on that table over there.”

A minute later, Poe scratched out his signature underneath a dedication on the first page.

The doctor looked touchingly grateful. Almost like the young women who had followed him around in his youth. Nowadays, most parents kept their young daughters far away from the notorious drunkard.

”Thank you. You don't know how much this means to me.”

Poe was beginning to consider how many copies of his other work he had. At this time in his life it was rare to run into any admirer, even if it wasn't a young woman or indeed a woman at all. If he had any spare copies left – but he couldn't remember and perhaps this would do for the time being.

The doctor brought him something else to eat and more water. Poe had been hoping for something more satisfying, but knew that might be too much to expect from a doctor. When the girl returned he might be able to induce her to bring him a beer or two. It wasn't as satisfying as anything stronger – but – perhaps he should take care not to aggravate his condition. Still, as always, the cravings were present at the back of his mind. Over the years they had become familiar companions to him. If he was in the middle of writing one of his works, he might successfully fight them off – but lately -

Poe sank back onto his pillow, feeling more relaxed than fatigued. Perhaps his condition was improving? He didn't think he would fall asleep again, but he must have, because suddenly he found himself in a dark low-ceilinged subterranean, windowless space – a corridor – a tunnel? Only at irregular distances did he see torches casting their uneven, flickering light. Something was in there with him – something dreadful – and it was chasing him, gaining on him. He couldn't see what it was, but he sensed it was after him, and would always find him, no matter how far he ran or where he hid.

Running as fast as he could, he eventually reached a cul-de-sac and knew it was over. His pursuer would catch up with him and -

He woke up bathing in sweat, screaming and shaking all over.

The doctor was there, still sitting in the chair next to the bed.

”Mr Poe – calm yourself. It is only a dream. You are quite safe here.”

He placed a gentle hand on Poe's shoulder and held him down. For a time, Poe barely noticed. He was still too caught up in the horror from moments ago. Why was he so cold when he was sweating so profusely? How was it that he couldn't shake off the dread from – what had to be a dream, just as the doctor so calmly had pointed out? This condition wasn't entirely unfamiliar to Poe, but it had been some time since it was this bad. Though he knew he was making a spectacle of himself, he couldn't stop the shaking and the sobbing that refused to release its grip on him.

He was holding Virginia in his arms feeling the life drain out of her. It was happening all over again. Why would it never end? Was he cursed to relive that moment all his life?

”No. Not again. Please let it end.”

He felt strong, gentle arms pull him into a comforting embrace. His head rested on the doctor's shoulder and he felt the shakes slowly recede. Somewhere as if from a great distance, he heard someone murmuring soothing words, but he couldn't decipher them. Perhaps it did not matter. Humiliating as the situation was, it was having its effect. Not until the last of the shakes were gone, did the doctor release his patient and let him slip back onto the bed.

”Feeling better? I think I might have something that could possibly help you, but I'd rather not – it is quite a strong remedy and not fully tested at this time.”

”A drink. If you could just get me one small drink -”

”It may come to that, but I think you should try to get by without any more alcohol. After this attack -”

Poe wanted to shout and silence this doctor who was trying to – but lost his will to fight instantly and gave up. He knew better than to expect a physician to give in to his childish tantrums.

”Yes, yes. You don't have to tell me. I – apologize for my outburst, doctor. I'm – not quite myself at the moment.”

”Of course. No need to apologize. I'm going to get a wash basin and some water -”

Poe knew he was drenched in sweat so no doubt the doctor had noticed too. This time, he almost didn't dread the humiliating experience. He had spent too many hours in filthy clothing sticking to his skin, smelling of old, drunken sweat to want to go through that again.

Once again he felt himself being stripped of his clothing and wiped clean, then dressed again. A few minutes later his bed was once again covered with clean linens and he was back, leaning against the pillows again. The doctor spent a few more minutes wiping his forehead and face, then removing the basin and the rags. He was back in a moment, bringing another glass of water. Despite his disappointment in the bland drink, Poe was grateful. His throat was still parched. At least the water helped a little.

Not keen to renew his acquaintance with the monster in his dream, he resolved to stay awake for as long as he could.

”So, Elijah – have you ever tried to write anything yourself?”

”Other than exams? Not really. Once I tried to pen an article to a scientific journal – but I believe my talents lie more in practical applications of my profession. Caring for patients. After all, that was why I wanted to become a doctor in the first place.”

”An admirable vocation. Personally, I wouldn't have the patience – besides – all that suffering -”

The doctor nodded his agreement.

”Yes, the suffering – that is what I'm trying to relieve. At times it may seem insurmountable, but I believe that in time, we doctors and medical science will be able to eradicate most of the ills of our time.”

Poe was wondering if the doctor was tactfully hinting at his own dependence on spirits, but did not wish to question him further. Instead, he took a closer look. Just as his initial observation had told him, this was a serious, well-intentioned man. Someone who genuinely wished to serve his fellow human beings. He looked kind and open and might even have a sense of humor. Poe caught himself wondering if Fields had much success among the fairer sex. He could imagine this man holding a young woman in his arms, kissing her – hands skillfully removing her clothing -

What was he thinking? He felt his cheeks flush slightly and hoped the doctor hadn't noticed. It had been – months since the last woman had shared his bed. The more sick he had got, the more the women stayed away. Not that he had anywhere near as much success in that department as he had once had. Once fame abandoned you – friends and fortune didn't take long to vanish too.

His gaze returned to the doctor's hands, then flitted away up to his face, taking in the eyes, the mouth – Before Poe could catch himself he had imagined what it would be like to be kissed by those lips – for a woman. Naturally for a woman. How would a woman see dr Fields? He could easily imagine her – this hypothetical woman – enjoying the touch of those hands – and those lips – The doctor was clean shaven and looked – vigorous and healthy.

Once again, a vision came unbidden into Poe's mind of the doctor stripping naked, sitting in a bathtub or walking into a lake or river, to wash himself – The vision wouldn't be dispelled. Suddenly, Poe was there with him, not in the water, but on a bed or sofa – unable to look away or indeed move away – he felt his hands touching the doctor's skin, pulling him close, pressing his lips to the doctor's and – his own body reacting to the proximity as if lying in bed with a woman. Pulse and heartrate rising, his excitement growing.

This felt far too real. It was as if – This couldn't possibly be just a dream or vision, could it? He felt the taste of the doctor's lips and the beating of his heart underneath the fabric of his shirt – The doctor, far from resisting – responded in kind, his breathing and heartrate picking up and – To his horror, Poe found that he didn't even want to break free of the vision. It was far too pleasurable, after all these months of abstinence.

When at last he managed to break free of his compulsion, he knew that something had occurred. The experience had been real. He was holding the doctor in his arms and – they were now naked to the waist. This was impossible. It had to be some kind of new and more diabolical vision connected to the shakes. He had never – not even in the army – never even wanted to – yet, to hold someone in his arms like this, even – was too sweet and despite his first impulse, he did not push the doctor away.

After a moment, the doctor himself pulled back and returned to his chair. He looked flushed and abashed and it was clear that he wished to pretend nothing had occurred between them. That was fine with Poe. No words commenting on the incident would ever pass his lips. To his shame, he didn't even regret it. He felt better than he had in weeks. Months, maybe. This was just what he had needed for so long he had almost begun to think it would never happen again. He knew what some people said about him. That he was a madman, a pervert, a drug user – Perhaps he was all of that – except the latter. Unless you counted plain spirits. In all fairness, he had never touched the opium he had studied and depicted in his gothic tales.

Eventually, he dozed off, feeling more relaxed than before. When he woke up again, he had the outline of a story in his mind. Since the doctor was still present, he might as well try it on him. After all, he was an admirer.

”Doctor, would you like me to tell you a story?”

”A story? Yes, I'd love that.”

”It's a new one. I just thought of it. It's set here in Baltimore. One night - ”

He began to tell the story, adding new embellishments as he went along. As always, he used the storytelling to make sense of his life and his world. Putting experiences and thoughts into the framework of a story helped him deal with what life had dealt him. Even poor sweet Virginia's death had returned to him and found a new existence on paper. Later he would ask for pen and paper to write this new – and perhaps last – story down.

The doctor smiled when he heard his name, or at least part of it, used in reference to the corageous police officer who worked alongside the author. He wasn't sure but he sensed that perhaps the young fiancee too – Emily – might be an alter ego of his – shamefacedly he recalled lying in his patient's embrace earlier.

Later it occurred to him that perhaps the serial killer and maybe even Emily's father could be construed as symbols of society's refusal to acknowledge love such as the one he and his idol had just shared. The oppression of a society unable to deal with what they could not understand.

Once the story was finished, Poe fell back onto his pillows exhausted and dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep. When he awakened, at first he remembered nothing. Then slowly, the memories returned. What had he done? Had he lost his mind? The doctor was no longer sitting in that chair and Poe forced himself to his feet, found a shirt and a jacket on the floor, never realizing they were not his own. Unsteadily, he made his way down the stairs and outside into the cold october air. He had to get away. Run from his own bebauchery. It was bitter to realize that his detractors had been right about him. He was a pervert, a madman -

When he came to his senses again, he was sitting on a park bench somewhere – he had important information – he had to tell someone -

A man was bending over him, solicitously.

”Mr Poe, isn't it? Can I help you in some way? You look rather the worse for wear.”

”Tell Fields his last name is Reynolds.”

”I'm sorry, you're not making much sense, mr Poe. I'll get someone to help you.”

There. He had imparted his message. Now he could rest.

”Lord help my poor soul.”

His last thoughts turned to what he had done, but his mind shied away from that. No, he had saved Emily. He had given his life to save his love and now – it was over. There would be no more tales told in his name. The words had deserted him. His story was over. When they came to take him away, he was no longer conscious.

FIN

© Tonica


End file.
